Vitalness of touch
Touch is often talked about as if it were a luxury, something ornamental, when in fact it is as basic as food, sleep, or language. I’ve noticed, working as an independent escort in London, how often people arrive not just with desire but with hunger for something quieter: to be held, to feel a hand rest on the back of their neck, to remember what it is like to be close without judgement. It is not therapy, and I would never pretend it could replace what a professional psychologist or physician provides, but it can offer a small antidote to the absence of touch that marks so many modern lives.
The science is clear. Infants who are not held fail to thrive, adults who live without affectionate contact show higher stress, weakened immunity, lower resilience. We like to imagine we grow beyond the need for closeness, but bodies remember. The nervous system reads safe touch as regulation; it tells the body, “you are not alone.” That signal should not be underestimated.
Touch doesn’t just register on the skin. It rewires us, builds trust, folds us into someone else’s presence. Think of it as an unspoken conversation, fewer words needed than when we rely on speech. Many of us go through weeks at a time without that basic contact, and it’s more isolating than we care to admit.
Travel has only reinforced this for me. In Shanghai I saw groups of elderly friends in the park, walking arm in arm, touching each other’s shoulders as they talked, physical contact woven casually into daily life. In Lisbon and Rome, strangers kiss both cheeks without hesitation, whether they want to or not. In Bangkok, massage is not framed as indulgence, it is routine maintenance, as normal as brushing your teeth. In much of the Arabic world, men walk hand in hand or embrace as a matter of friendship, something that would be taboo in many Western cities.
And then there is the West itself, where distance has become habit. Men in particular often grow up without much affectionate touch unless it is romantic or sexual. Boys are taught to be stoic, to keep emotions in check, and the result is a kind of armour that can last a lifetime. The need for comfort never disappears, but it has fewer sanctioned outlets. Over time that gap shows up as stress, irritability, or withdrawal. In psychology it is called it “skin hunger,” the state of going without touch for too long. It leaves people restless, less resilient, sometimes chasing intensity in other ways just to feel contact. What I notice most in thhis work is how quickly the body responds once safe touch is offered. Shoulders drop, breathing slows, attention stops scattering. It is as if their nervous system had been waiting for permission.
I think often about how small gestures carry disproportionate weight. A hand brushed over the table, a momentary squeeze, an arm squeezed in support. These do not need to be grand or overtly erotic to matter. They reassure, they ground. They say: I see you, I am here. And from there, eroticism can emerge in its own time, less like a performance, more like a natural extension of connection.
In this capacity I am not your therapist, and nothing I do is meant to stand in place of professional care. If you're feeling touch-deprived, know that there is hope. You are not alone. Reach out, seek support, it doesn’t have to be to me, there are places such as Meetup, where you can find various support/social groups. Whatever you decide upon, embrace the healing power of touch. You deserve to feel loved, cherished, and deeply connected; you’re a human being, and it is what we require to thrive.
